Bag Limit (23 page)
The telephone rang at 2:20. My immediate reaction when the phone’s bell tingled my pulse was that Estelle Reyes-Guzman was calling to report that their flight had been snowed in somewhere in downtown Minnesota, or that they hadn’t been able to find a rental car in El Paso.
Tadd managed to manipulate the phone on the kitchen counter without breaking stride with whatever it was that he was doing…a process that appeared to involve a lot of loose flour.
“Gastner residence. This is Tadd Gastner speaking,” he said, and tucked the phone under his chin as he concentrated with both hands on kneading a long roll of dough. “Sure,” he said, and listened again. “No, he’s right here. Hang on.”
A lift of the chin and he dropped the phone and caught it deftly with a small explosion of flour. He extended it toward me. “Mr. Dayan would like to talk with you, Grandpa,” he said.
I took the receiver gently and dusted it off. “Frank,” I said into the phone, “I was about to call you.”
“I thought we had a moratorium against weekend crimes,” Dayan said.
“Don’t I wish,” I replied. Dayan’s
Posadas Register
hit the newsstands and the Post Office on Thursday afternoon. A major event happening close to the weekend made him easy prey for the big-city dailies whose circulation reached Posadas—should we have an event that piqued their curiosity.
“I tried to reach you yesterday afternoon, but you were busy, I guess. Pam was going to track you down too, but I didn’t hear if she managed or not.”
“No, she didn’t.” Pam Gardiner did most of the editing and reporting for the
Register
, but she was no ball of fire. I was certainly no judge of journalism, but it appeared that her favorite kind of news was the carefully prepared public relations release that she could paste into the newspaper without a second thought.
“Someone was telling me that it’s Undersheriff Torrez’s nephew who was killed Friday night in that truck-pedestrian accident, and his uncle who died Saturday morning. Is that right?”
“Almost. Matthew Baca was killed Friday night. He was one of Torrez’s cousins, not a nephew.”
“The other was his uncle, though?”
“That’s correct.”
“And you’re investigating the uncle’s death as a possible homicide? Did I hear that right?”
“That’s also correct. Your grapevine is pretty good.”
“Well, it’s Dan Schroeder, and he should know,” Dayan said with a short laugh. “How did the old man die, do you know?”
“We’re not sure.”
“Not shot or stabbed, though? Anything like that?”
“No. It doesn’t appear that way. It looks like there might have been some kind of tussle that precipitated Sosimo’s death.”
“Got a name yet?”
“For whom?”
“For whomever Mr. Baca was fighting with.”
“I didn’t say they were fighting, Frank. I said some kind of tussle. We don’t actually know what the hell
they
were doing, if there was a
they
. Dancing, maybe. And no, we don’t have a name.”
“Huh,” Dayan said, hesitating.
“That’s the way I feel,” I said. “A great big ‘Huh.’”
“Is the undersheriff heading things up?”
“Heading things up? What’s that mean?”
“Is it his investigation?”
I sighed. My intuitive feelers sensed the not-so-fine touch of Leona Spears behind that question. There was still lots of time for the daffy candidate to blow things all out of proportion before the polls opened at 7:00
AM
Tuesday.
“What does Leona say?” I countered, and Frank Dayan laughed.
“I’m surprised she’s not camped on your doorstep,” he said. “She wants to know if I’m putting out an election eve special edition.”
“And are you?”
“Uh, no. But she kindly provided me with two letters to the editor, just in case I change my mind. In the first, she accuses Torrez of trying to cover up the facts about his nephew’s death.”
“Cousin. And what are the facts that we’re trying to cover up?”
“That the incident followed a high-speed chase that resulted in damage to two county vehicles and serious injury to two other teenagers, one of whom is reportedly hovering near death as we speak.”
“That’s goddamn creative,” I muttered, and Tadd glanced over at me and grinned.
“And that following a night spent out on the mountain, the boy was finally arrested at his home.” I heard the rustle of paper. “And then the questions start.” Dayan cleared his throat. “Why was the Border Patrol involved? Why did they stop the deputy who had Matthew Baca in custody?”
“The deputy?” I said. Despite my best efforts, I could hear my pulse clicking up a level or two.
“Well, whoever. And the last one. Why was the boy allowed out of the car along a busy highway?”
“That’s it?”
“That’s the gist of it.”
“Leona is a head case, Frank. You know that. I’m not going to dignify any of that trash with a comment. Except to clarify the deputy thing. I had the kid in custody, not one of my deputies.”
“I know that, Bill. Schroeder set me straight, and said he was going to call Leona and set her straight. I just kept the letter as a souvenir. Something for my scrapbook in the chapter titled ‘Life with the Loonies.’ If you think that letter’s good, you ought to read the second one…just in case I decide to have an election eve special, mind you.”
“I’m not sure I want to hear.”
Ignoring me, Dayan started his recitation. “‘Despite the United States Border Patrol’s best efforts to investigate the death of a prominent Regal resident, the Posadas County Sheriff’s Department steadfastly refuses to divulge important information to federal authorities.’”
“Steadfastly. I like that word.”
“Me too. There’s more. ‘None of this is surprising, considering that the victim is a close family relative of Undersheriff Robert Torrez, who heads the investigation for the county.’”
“A
family
relative,” I said. “I wasn’t aware of any other kind.”
“I thought you might appreciate that.”
“Your original question is probably valid, Frank. Is Robert heading the investigation? No, he’s not. I am, at least until Tuesday when election returns are counted. And when Robert wins the election,
he’ll
be in charge. And I, thank God, will be a civilian again, with nothing better to do than sit around and write crazy letters to the newspaper.”
Dayan laughed good-naturedly. “I look forward to those, Bill.”
“I bet you do. But look…I appreciate hearing about Loony Leona. It’s nice to be forewarned, just in case. And I have a question for you, too.”
“Shoot.”
“In your travels around town, have you heard anything about Cliff Larson resigning as livestock inspector for this area?”
A short pause followed, then Dayan said, “I hadn’t heard that, no. It doesn’t surprise me, though. I know he has family somewhere back east with an illness, and I know for a fact that he’s ill. So it wouldn’t surprise me if he called it quits. Why?”
I didn’t ask Dayan who his sources were, but it didn’t matter. He and Judge Lester Hobart belonged to the same service clubs, where talk was rampant. Cliff Larson looked like death warmed over—maybe because he was. And if that was the case, he wasn’t asking me to take over the livestock inspector’s job for just a week or two…just as Judge Lester Hobart had implied.
“That’s what I thought,” I said. “He looks and sounds like hell. But he asked if I’d help him with the job after the election for a week or two.”
“A week or two? Maybe that was just to make it sound like a smaller favor than it is, Sheriff.”
“You’re not the only one saying that, Frank. What’s going on?”
He hesitated again, and for an instant I wondered if I was going to regret talking to the newspaper publisher. I had trusted him before with sensitive stories, and beyond that, even though he’d lived in Posadas now for nine years, I knew that he was still considered an outsider—except during community fundraisers, of course. “Maybe you and I should have lunch sometime,” he said.
“Why not just tell me right now?” I said with more impatience than I would have liked.
“Some things I’d rather say in person, Bill,” Dayan said. “This is kinda interesting. You and I need to talk.”
“I can’t today, except maybe later this evening. How about tomorrow?”
“That will work, I think.” He laughed. “Do I need to ask where?”
“No, you don’t. And how about around two in the afternoon? That’ll give the lunch crowd time to get out of the way.”
“I’ll be there. Call me if something comes up so you can’t make it.”
“Sure enough.” I hung up and took a deep breath. Tadd was cutting strips of thin dough and lacing them across the top of a sea of apple and pineapple in one of my old glass baking pans. “Is that cobbler?”
He nodded. “Cool beans, eh?”
“Cool beans,” I said. “You’re hired.”
He grinned. “What’s a livestock inspector do, anyway?”
“All kinds of things,” I said. “I didn’t realize you were tuned in.” He shot a quick glance at me to see if I was really as irritated as I sounded. I wasn’t, and added, “New Mexico has a pretty comprehensive set of laws that govern how livestock is handled, Tadd. Anytime a rancher wants to move cattle off his own property, for instance, he’s got to have a travel permit. That involves an inspection of the cattle, a count, all that kind of thing.” I waved a hand in dismissal. “It goes on and on from there.”
“You’re going to do that after you retire?”
“I’ve been thinking about it.”
He stood back and regarded the finished creation. “You sure find interesting things to do, Grandpa.”
“Thank you.” I bent down so I could direct my bifocals at the intricate crust. “And when do we get to eat this?”
“Thirty minutes from now,” Tadd said, and glanced at the clock. “Timing is everything.”
The tornado hit at 2:32
PM
The only warning was Buddy’s calm remark, “I think we have company.” At the moment, I was en route to the bathroom. Thankfully, I knew what was coming, and didn’t put off my trip to the head.
I emerged from the bathroom and felt the draft from the front door, stepped into the hallway, and heard a loud
“Padrino!”
screeched at the top of Francisco Guzman’s four-year-old lungs. He’d been standing outside with everyone else, shuffling leaves with his little shoes and wondering who the hell Buddy was. Then he caught sight of me. The youngster cleared the front steps in a bound and hurtled down the hall.
I dropped to one knee and braced myself, taking the attack on the protective bulk of my girth. Francisco hooked his bony little arms around my neck and locked on. His raven-black hair had that musty smell that marks most little kids too long on the road, and his forehead bashed my glasses painfully against the bridge of my nose.
“Whoa,
keeed
, ” I bellowed, and bear-hugged the little squirt. With considerable effort I stood up, taking Francisco with me. A smaller version of him appeared in the doorway, eyes wide. Carlos wasn’t quite sure who I was, his dim memories probably blended even further by seeing my son first—a thirty-year younger someone whom he couldn’t quite remember anyway.
“Carlos,” I shouted at him, and his eyes widened some more as he backed out of the door, both hands coming up toward his mouth.
“Hijo, muy bien,”
a soft voice behind him said.
“Es su padrino.”
Estelle Reyes-Guzman appeared in the doorway, bent down, and scooped up Carlos as if he were weightless. With a deft hoist, she draped him over her left shoulder like a little bag of grain, holding on to his ankles as he let out a screech of delight.
“Hey, there,” I said. “You want this one too?” Francisco giggled and locked his hands tighter.
“You can have him, Padrino,” Estelle said. She frowned at her oldest son, and all that accomplished was to drive his face harder into my neck, threatening to cut off my already over worked carotid.
I grinned, silly with delight. Estelle and I managed a hug with the two squirming dervishes more or less entwined. “God, it’s good to see you guys. It seems like about ten years,” I said.
“That would make this
hijo
old enough to drive, and that’s a scary thought.” Estelle laughed. “Six months is long enough.”
“You bet it is.”
She heaved a great sigh and stepped back a pace, giving her room to bend over and deposit Carlos on the floor. He latched on to her left leg and regarded me, black eyes just like his mother.
“Did you bring Francis with you, or leave him behind?” I asked.
“Afuera,”
Francisco announced too close to my ear, and pointed. “Who is that?” he added, and transferred the point over my left shoulder. I twisted at the waist and saw my grandson approaching.
“This is my grandson,” I said. “Tadd, I don’t know if you’ve ever met the Guzman clan,” I said.
“No, but heard lots,” Tadd said. He stepped up, clamped his hands on either side of Francisco’s rib cage, and curled his lips in mock threat.
“En especial acerca de usted, chiquito.”
For once, at least for a few seconds, Francisco was speechless. Tadd released his hold, grinned at the kid, and tousled his hair, then switched his attention to Estelle. “You must be Estelle,” he said, and held out a hand.
She reached past the squirming arms of the two kids and took his hand. Her heavy black eyebrows twitched in amusement as she watched Francisco’s expression run the gamut, finally settling on wide-eyed astonishment.
“El Nieto,”
she said to the child.
“Nieto del Padrino.”
She gave Tadd’s hand a final pump and smiled at him. “It’s nice to meet you after all this time.” She turned and looked back out the door. “My husband has been captivated by your son’s Corvette. We may never get him inside.”
“Is that your car,
Padrino
? ” Francisco asked, suddenly regaining his composure.
“Nope. It’s my son’s.”
“Let me show you,” the youngster said, but the command was directed at Tadd.
“Okay, show me,” my grandson said, and Francisco slithered down to the floor and shot out the door, little brother trying his best to keep up. As he headed outside, Tadd nodded at Estelle and me. “About ten minutes or so,” he said.
“He means until dinner is ready, and he’s dead serious,” I said.
Estelle watched him go. “He looks a lot like his grandmother,” she said.
“Yes he does, fortunately for him. His older brother is the tank of that generation. Kendal’s in school, though, and couldn’t break away.”
She squeezed my arm and we headed outside. Dr. Francis Guzman was standing with his arms folded across his chest a pace or two behind the Corvette, regarding it critically while Buddy explained its various merits. He turned at our approach, a broad smile splitting his handsome face. He had clipped his full beard short, and it seemed more liberally sprinkled with gray than half a year before.
“There he is,” the physician said. “Bill, you’re looking better than ever.”
“That wouldn’t be hard to do.” I laughed. “You guys look like Minnesota is treating you well.” He clasped my hand, putting his left over both in a two-handed grip. I couldn’t help noticing the heavy, ridged scar that ran across the back of his left hand, from between his index and second finger, diagonally back to his wrist, behind the base of his thumb.
“Most of the time,” he said lightly.
“Hijo,”
he snapped. Francisco was in the process of reaching toward the recessed door handle of the sports car, and his hand stopped as if it had encountered an invisible wall.
“He can’t hurt it,” Buddy said.
“You’d be amazed,” Francis replied. Tadd scooped the kid up and with the other hand deftly opened the car door. He sat in the driver’s seat, Francisco on his lap. Carlos advanced, uncertain, stopping at his father’s leg. From inside the car, I heard the nonstop jabbering of the excited older youngster, all of it in Spanish. My grandson’s response was just as rapid-fire, just as incomprehensible.
“I didn’t know until thirty seconds ago that Tadd spoke Spanish,” I said to Buddy.
“He’d better,” my son said. “I think he’s been studying it in school since about second grade. And the crowd he hangs out with is mostly bilingual, so…” He shrugged.
“Friends for life,” Estelle said, watching Francisco read each number on the tachometer to Tadd.
“Unless we’re late for lunch. And then it’s all over.”
“We ate a little on the plane, and then Francis stopped in Cruces so the kids could tank up,” she said. “Don’t go to any special trouble.”
“No trouble for me,” I said. “It turns out the grandkid is a surprise. He loves to cook. That’s all he’s been doing, all day. You’re all starving, believe me.”
Between the five adults and two rambunctious kids, we managed to unload the Guzmans’ rental van in one trip. I couldn’t tell if my big, quiet old adobe was cringing at the ruckus, or was content with the sudden injection of uproar.
When Francisco and Carlos saw their room, they stood in flat-footed amazement. And in silence too, for about ten seconds. After a couple of minutes, Tadd excused himself to return to the kitchen, and Francisco immediately detached himself, following along behind my grandson, one of the larger teddy bears in tow.
As soon as everyone knew where their digs were, I left Estelle and her husband alone, and joined my son and grandson in the kitchen.
“What do you need?” I asked Tadd.
“Are you going to take me for a ride,
Padrino
? ” Francisco asked before Tadd had a chance to answer.
“Not now, kid,” I said. “Maybe later you can talk
Nieto
here into it.”
“Not,” Buddy said quickly.
“They can sit on my lap while Dad drives, maybe,” Tadd said. He looked down at Francisco. “Right now I need you to uncover the grill outside,” he said. “You think you can do that?”
“I’ll show ’em,” Buddy said, not quite as eager as Tadd to trust the process to the whirlwind.
When the door closed behind them, I repeated my question. Tadd paused, regarding the cobbler on the cooling rack as if all the answers lay there.
“Do you think it’s warm enough for the kids to be outside?” he asked.
“Sure.”
“Then I think I’ll eat outside with them. That way maybe you guys can have a little peace and quiet. Okay?”
I reached up and squeezed the back of my grandson’s neck. “You’re a good kid,” I said. Estelle stepped into the kitchen, and the instant that her shoes hit the saltillo tile, the phone rang.
I picked up the receiver. “Gastner.”
“Sir,” Bob Torrez said, “my sister’s back. She said that three would be fine. I asked her to meet us at her office.”
I groaned inwardly and looked up at the clock. “Roberto, the Guzmans just now walked in the door. My grandson’s got a dinner prepared for ’em and we’re just about to sit down. If I walk out now, he’ll shoot me.”
“No problem, sir.” He sounded more formal than need be. I wasn’t sure if he meant that shooting me was no problem.
“Here’s the plan,” I said. “Why don’t you and Gayle come over. When we’re done here, then we’ll go chat with your sister. Call her and tell her that we’ll be a little late. Maybe four, four-thirty. Something like that.” I glanced at Estelle and raised an eyebrow. She nodded.
“You’re sure?” Torrez asked.
“Of course I’m sure. My grandson has cooked enough for about eighteen people. We’d all like to see you guys.”
“Right now?”
“This very moment.” Torrez lived four minutes away, up on MacArthur. “See you in a bit.” I hung up before he had second thoughts. “He and Gayle are on their way,” I said. “I hope you don’t mind. He needs to relax for a little while, if he can. Have you heard from Gayle much?”
“We keep in touch,” Estelle said. “More from Bobby, though. I just got an E-mail from him this morning, before we left for the airport. He must have been up half the night.”
“Is that right?” What I really wanted to ask was what the E-mail had been about, but I knew it was none of my business.
As usual, my thought process was as transparent as glass to Estelle. “He’s worried that his sister might be involved in something?”
“There’s that possibility,” I said.
“Apparently you were going to talk to her this afternoon. Bob asked if I’d consider going along—assuming that we made it here on time.”
“We can’t ask you to do that,” I said, not meaning a word of it and trying to keep the surprise off my face. I found myself more amused than irritated that my undersheriff had extended the invitation to Estelle long before I’d suggested it—and then not told me that he’d done so. “You’re supposed to be on vacation.”
“Doing a little business makes it all tax deductible,” Estelle said. “It sounds kind of interesting. And I know Bobby’s worried. He tries not to sound like it, but I know he is.”
I let out a deep breath. “I’ve been trying to figure out how to ask you,” I said. “But he beat me to it. It seems like kind of a dirty trick to hornswoggle you into working the minute you set foot in the county.”
“It’s not really work,” she said, and favored me with one of her rare smiles. “And we’re going to eat first, anyway.”
